


A Lack of Sleep

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Feelings, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Self-Discovery, season eight related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 07:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13712958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: Sometimes it takes being so sleep deprived you can’t see straight to be able to clearly see what really matters... what you really want.





	A Lack of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many things I want to be working on, so many things I’ve said I would work on..... And life keeps getting in the way, and then I try to write quick comfort fic, to get some feelings out so I can move on and write those things.... And those quick comfort fics keep taking over.... So, here’s another something that started as comfort-feeling-processing, and turned into something a bit more. It's still kind of rough, because rather than edit it, I'm hoping to get on with the other stuff. But I think it's lovely as it is, and I hope you do too. <3

Danny can’t sleep. Which isn’t all that unusual. Especially lately. He’s gotten a little too used to it this time, and it’s nagging at him just a little, that this isn’t healthy. Sleep is important. Really important. Especially to him. He knows he’s so much less functional when he’s regularly sleeping poorly. Not to mention his mood. His outlook. Everything looks so much darker with less sleep. All pain is so much more intense. All insults sting infinitely more. Injuries hurt so much deeper. And things that ordinarily feel a little empty or lacking ring with hollowness that’s almost unbearable. Like the emptiness of his house in the middle of the night. It’s an emptiness that _hurts_. Which isn’t a thought he’d ordinarily have, but he feels the truth of it now, and knows he’s known the feeling before. Like it’s always there, he just can’t usually feel it, sense it—isn’t ordinarily aware of it, when he’s sleeping well.

But he’s not sleeping well now, and it’s really starting to hurt his heart.

He gets up and makes coffee, because it just feels like the only thing to do that isn’t impossibly tragic and gloomy. He’s got a book he’s been wanting to read—at least, he’s been saying he’s been wanting to read it. Probably he’ll wind up mindlessly scrolling stupid internet crap, or turn on the fucking TV and zone out to something with no plot and really awful dialogue. Unrealistic, flat characters with no passion, no verve. Or settings that make no sense at all—like no one bothered to think, hey, maybe we shouldn’t set our show in New York if there are going to be palm trees in all the outdoor scenes. Or conversely, if our show is supposedly set in Florida, maybe people shouldn’t always wear black leather jackets. At least the fake towns with really stupid generic names that don’t even pretend to be real have an advantage in that department. They still piss him off.

In all fairness, that stuff ordinarily pisses him off. It’s just, when he’s not sleeping, those things really get under his skin and annoy him on a really visceral level. Like tiny toothpicks jabbing at him while he tries and fails to get lost in a storyline that’s entirely not up to the task.

The internet is likely to fail for similar reasons. It’s easy enough to get lost down some rabbit hole, but he’s inevitably dumped right back out by the latest stupid or cruel or heartless or unbelievably violent thing someone’s done or said or admitted. It’s almost not even worth trying to find escape in that way these days, there are simply too many pitfalls. Even formerly reliable-for-meaninglessness sports analysis has too many dangerous edges. Trades and transfers have deeper meanings and significances they didn’t use to. Or at least, no one used to point them out.

Everything just hurts more. And more easily. And maybe that’s only partly him, and partly his exhaustion that’s not even really exhaustion but is more like _soul tiredness_. Lack of refreshment, lack of positivity. Maybe it’s partly him getting old. Things didn’t use to get so dark so easily. His body used to bounce back from injury more readily. And he used to be better at sleeping.

To be fair, he’s never been an excellent sleeper. He still napped into his teens, only because getting eight hours in a nighttime sleep cycle just wasn’t something his body seemed capable of doing. Maybe he should take up napping again, though he’s reluctant to begin that old man habit. He may have little choice soon. There’s room in his office for a cot, and frankly, that’s something they should probably all have. It would simply be good protocol.

He thinks he’ll bring it up with Steve, as he stands barefoot in his kitchen, watching the coffee seep out, drip by drip, until it’s a steady stream, and the sound is familiar and comforting, but in a way that kind of irritates him because it’s usually _more_ comforting. Then he realizes it’s raining. And not like summer misting rain, but a winter, grim kind of rain that brings a heaviness with it that even a rainbow can’t break.

And the kids have been sick. And Rachel’s kept them home, away from him—ostensibly so he doesn’t get sick and get Steve sick, and he _is_ grateful, really, that Rachel’s softened enough to think to be mindful of that, of Steve’s health... for Danny’s own sake, he knows.

As he thinks about that, pouring the finished coffee into his biggest mug, he thinks that may have been what started this descent into darkness. He’d probably shoved it aside as him being glum for missing his usual doses of the kids. They’re more powerful than vitamins to Danny. And more likely to get him feeling off when he misses that time together. But, as he leans against the hard edge of the kitchen counter, letting it dig into the palms of his hands, basking in the burnt coffee steam rising up to his face, it begins to occur to Danny that Rachel’s seeming thoughtfulness, wanting to keep Steve from being exposed to whatever crud the kids have got... that there’s something there, some assumption on her part, that maybe he’s missed somehow, something he’s been blind to. Because, and maybe it’s one of those flashes of insight you get sometimes only when you’re truly sleep deprived, but he suddenly sees with blinding clarity that she’s made that choice from a place of thinking she knows something that Danny’s just not admitted to her yet.

Thing is, he hasn’t really admitted it to himself.

It hits him now with such force he nearly falls over, and if he hadn’t already been resting most of his weight against the thankfully solid kitchen island, well. He might very well have actually fallen over. Which is partly the effect of the severe lack of sleep. And partly that lightheaded feeling you get when you realize you’ve been an absolute blind idiot.

Pushing off the counter and turning himself around to slide to the floor as gracefully as he can, Danny feels half like he’s going to start laughing, and half like he’s probably finally going to break his streak, because he thinks his insides are trying to escape from his mouth one way or another. And it takes a good few solid minutes of breathing as mindfully as he can till that feeling passes and he starts to feel more clear-headed than he has in too long. Painfully clear-headed. Like stark flood lights have been turned on in a room full of shadows, and everything is whited out till you adjust and then slowly, shapes begin to form, and eventually you can identify the room’s contents.

All he can see is Steve. Steve flinging himself into danger, Steve using power tools, Steve surfing, Steve drinking beer and laughing. Steve’s hazel eyes, that stupid shaved head. All he can feel is Steve. The thump of his arm around Danny’s shoulders at the end of a long day. The brush of his hand against Danny’s as they walk through the office. The tap on his shoulder as they move through an op. The press of his thigh against Danny’s when they sit on the sturdy wooden benches at Kamekona’s after a case happily resolved. The smell of coffee leaves the realm of his perception and in its place is that too-familiar scent of Steve. Soap and mint and gunpowder and ocean.

Well. Fuck. This kind of changes everything, now, doesn’t it.

The thing is, there’s no possible way this goes well. Danny’s not going to kid himself about that, even for five minutes. They can barely make it through a day without arguing, there’s no possible way they make it through an hour in bed without coming to blows. And while that idea is at least vaguely compelling, it’s not what Danny wants. Not at this stage in his life. He needs tenderness, comfort, and that kind of intrinsic support he’s always longed for from a partner. Longed for, but never actually achieved. It’s one of those things he’s come to believe is something unique to him, some kind of fantasy that no one else shares—no one he’s ever slept with, at any rate. The closest he ever gets is that feeling of having Steve at his back in a fight.

And of course that is the thought that starts him thinking that _maybe_.... But no, that would be catastrophically stupid. That would be doomed to failure. That would be asking for trouble. Everything about Steve is trouble. From his ridiculous tattooed arms to his broad fuzzy chest, from his clunky strutting boot-clad feet to the top of his stupid stupid shaved head. Those clumsy fingers that fumbled inside Danny’s chest—admittedly saving his life, but so rough and unkind. Steve is practical, Steve is brutish, Steve is a warrior. And Danny wants a lover.

Danny likes sex with women. He likes their softness, their supple, scented skin, their long hair tangling in his fingers, the pliant willingness of them spread out beneath him. It’s comfort and it’s home. It’s welcoming, and it warms him, deeply.

Sex with men has always been different. It’s hard and it’s messy and it’s driven. A lot of the time for him it’s been a contest, a game, a ploy. But some of the sweetest, most loving, most tender times Danny’s ever known in bed have been with a guy. Far more tender and loving than Rachel had ever been—but no, don’t think about that, don’t think about her, she was always too demanding, too instructive, too demeaning. And maybe Danny fears Steve would be like that as well. There’s something not entirely dissimilar to how Rachel treated Danny and the way Steve does. Bossing, yelling, scolding, that inner sense of just knowing, assuming they know best. For Danny, for everyone. And obviously there’s some part of Danny that appreciates that, likes it, enjoys it, gets off on it. But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy for him. Doesn’t mean it ultimately sits well with him, with his sense of himself, with his pride.

It’s been a long time, is the point, a long time since Danny’s been with a guy. And, alright, he misses it. And maybe it’s the roughness he misses—the hard edges, the sharp contrasts, the strength. And maybe it’s that deeper possibility of a kind of tenderness that means so much more, that fulfills something that’s almost out of reach, that’s almost unachievable. Danny knows it’s possible. And he longs for it. And some tiny, blooming thing inside him is starting to suggest that even if it’s not terribly likely, Steve is the most plausible thing he’s come anywhere near in damn close to twenty years. That thought makes it impossible for him to swallow, and the desire to throw up returns with a vengeance.

Sometime later, he’s gasping, his streak still intact, but finding breathing far more difficult than it’s meant to be. He forces himself to stand and grab his now-cold coffee. Sipping slowly at it as though it’s some kind of healing serum, Danny sits on the cold kitchen floor, back pressed uncomfortably against the kitchen cabinets, door handles digging into his back in a way that he knows he’ll regret. But it’s grounding him, keeping him from fading back into the fantasy world he thinks he’s always on the edge of falling into anyway. The one where he and Steve actually get along and stay together forever.

He’s had that dream for a number of years now. Probably since that time he flew to the other side of the world to bring him home. Pushed by some bone deep understanding that they simply had to be together, couldn’t be apart, couldn’t be separated, because Danny’s world would crumble to nothing if Steve ceased to be in it.

It’s overly dramatic, he knows this. It’s why he calls it some insane fantasy world, it’s why it feels like the edge of a knife, and it’s why he buries it so deeply within him that it surfaces only at the worst possible times—times when Steve’s flying a plane and gets shot, times when they’re both dying on a boat adrift at sea, times when Danny isn’t sleeping and can’t seem to think of anything else but Steve’s rough, callused hands running over Danny’s naked body.

Fuck. This is swiftly moving from the realm of bizarre realization to longstanding fantasy with a glimmer of possibility. And that’s just fucking insane. Because the thing is, Danny’s long suspected Steve’s not the one holding them back. It’s not just the touches, the way Steve’s protective of Danny. There’s just always been something about the way Steve’s claimed Danny that’s been open if not downright suggestive of their being together as more than just partners. It’s Danny himself, he knows, that’s held them back from that. Danny with his realism, Danny with his by-the-book and how things look and his _yes, I understand ways and means, but you aren’t actually in charge of the entire island, Steve_.

It’s not like Steve’s actually _asked_. He’s never crossed a line. Well, half of Steve’s normal behavior is completely over most lines, but not this. Yes, he’ll cuddle Danny instead of his date, yes he’ll let himself into Danny’s house any time of the day or night (Danny does the same to him, for what that’s worth), yes he’ll order for him when they go out, and yes, yes, he always always drives Danny’s car. But Steve’s never actually made a move. Danny’s pretty sure he’s wanted to. He’s sure he’s looked like he could, almost might. Several times. Okay, maybe more than that. But even when they’ve both been drunk, Steve’s always held back.

And Danny knows, he knows it without even thinking about it, that it’s because Steve has some kind of internal Danny-needs-to-control-this-one sensor. Steve pushes and pulls and directs and maneuvers and orders and simply takes what he wants, what he needs, and yes, that included taking Danny as his partner.

But not this.

And it’s not like Danny hasn’t known all of this. For a very long time. But, not on the surface, not in the light of day. It’s that buried too deep, pushed back down, swept under, tucked away... not now, not yet, not like this.... It’s never fully conscious. It’s never quite broken through some realm of imagining. Even when that electric knowing that Danny needs Steve like he needs air seeps up from the depths he tries to keep it hidden—from _himself_ , always from himself—even then, he can’t manage to look the entirety of this directly in the eye. Even then, he can’t totally unwrap the whole of Steve’s desire for him. He’s pretty sure it would be blinding.

But right now, on this cold kitchen floor, in the midst of a winter rain, with cold coffee clutched in his hand like it’s some kind of lifeline, in his near-perpetual state of sleepless exhaustion, having seen that Rachel thinks it’s already true... right now, Danny can’t for the life of him think of why he hasn’t. Right now it looks like the only thing he wants, it feels like the only thing he needs. It’s the answer to everything and denying himself this is breaking him. And he’s ready to stop being broken.

He sits there and drinks the rest of his cold coffee. Then he gets up and makes a fresh pot, and he drinks it sitting at the kitchen table. Not thinking about anything, now that he’s settled into this place of it being time. He notices the sound of the rain, the feel of the cold damp, the cooling warmth of the coffee between his hands, the rising discomfort in his back. And a strange, creeping sense of heat, of comfort, from deep within him. It’s getting light out, slowly, incrementally. Purple lightening to lilac, into palest pink with that tinge of peach, towards butter yellow, fading into blue. He gets up, rinses out his mug, goes to shower and get dressed. He drives to work almost in a daze, on auto pilot. He hasn’t thought what he’ll say, how he’ll tell Steve, when he’ll show his hand. Or even if he will.

Steve’s truck is in the parking lot, and the sight of it makes Danny’s stomach clench. Almost as if it’s suddenly solidly real, no longer senses of things and apparitions and long held imaginings. He almost turns the car back on and drives away, but there’s just no energy flowing away from Steve, it’s all going to lead Danny there. His legs feel numb, he can’t feel the steps he takes, just knows he’s somehow walking the path he’s walked so many times before, and it’s leading to something completely different this time. Tani sees him as he enters the office, and something in his expression must alert her because she comes to the door of her office and starts to ask if he’s okay... and then she turns and sees where Danny’s looking. Because Steve is standing in the middle of the hall, and it’s... _fuck_. It’s as if he _knew_. And that’s just... no. He couldn’t have, but the look on his face, and maybe Danny knew, knew he wasn’t going to have to say a word. And they stand there, frozen, immovable, just looking... letting it sink in... and thank god for Tani because she’s the one who breaks it.

“Go, just go.”

And Danny’s not sure if she’s saying it to Steve or to him, but it’s Steve who reacts, and he moves toward Danny, and grabs his shoulders and turns him forcibly around and starts to push him toward the door, and his hands are solid and warm and they press so firmly, and Danny’s lost to the sensation, which combined with his sleeplessness threatens to overwhelm him, and Steve’s taking the keys, and he’s driving them away, and Danny doesn’t ask where, doesn’t say a word.

They get to what Danny can only think of as their overlook, and they’d get out but it’s still raining, so they sit there, and they don’t speak, and after too long they turn and look at each other, and Steve hesitantly smiles, softly, tentatively. And Danny yawns.

“When was the last time you slept, buddy?”

Danny’s sigh is evidently answer enough.

“That’s it, I’m taking you home to bed,” and either Steve doesn’t realize how that sounds or he really means it that way, and Danny’s so dozy he doesn’t mind either way, and he nearly falls asleep on the way to his place. Steve helps him out of the car and into the house, into his room, where he makes Danny get out of his work clothes and into bed. “Sleep. Then we’ll talk.”

And Danny really wishes he had something to say to that, but he knows Steve is right... he’s just not sure he _can_ sleep.

Steve seems to sense this, and he sits down on the bed, patting the place next to him, and it’s not exactly what Danny had in mind when he’s imagined having Steve in his bed, but it’s all he’s capable of at the moment, so he lies down, close but not close enough, and he wills himself to sleep, because the sooner he does the sooner something else might happen, and that thought makes it harder to sleep. But then Steve’s hand comes to rest on his head, and as the warmth from his hand seeps into his skull he fades softly into sleep, feeling washed away by the absolute comfort of the touch.

When he stirs sometime later, Danny feels Steve’s heat at his side, his hand no longer on his head, and he misses the contact immediately. Steve’s reading Danny’s book, and that makes him smile. He’s never known Steve to just sit and read a book, and somehow that makes all of this seem infinitely more plausible.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs when he catches Danny watching him. “How long’s it been, huh? You not sleeping?”

“How long was I out for?”

Steve looks at his watch. “Nearly five hours.”

Danny rubs his face with his hands. “Sorry, babe.” He struggles to sit, and as he does, Steve puts the book down and his arm comes around Danny, pulling him against his chest.

“Don’t be.”

“So....” And Danny’s never been lost for words, but he is now. And he doesn’t really mind.

Steve chuckles lightly. “Not really sure there’s anything to be said, Danny. We both know.” He pauses, swallows, and Danny thinks he can feel the tension in Steve’s body, he’d not noticed it before, but he can almost taste it now, and he regrets it taking him so long, he thinks, because he’s pretty sure that tension is something Steve’s been suffering with for too long now. “We both know where this has always been heading. It’s only ever been a question of how long.” He pulls Danny closer. “I’d contented myself with thinking it would be when you retired.... So I’m just happy you got there sooner.”

“You could have... _pushed_... you know. Any time. It wouldn’t have taken much.”

He’s shaking his head, slowly, just small movements, but Danny can feel it. “No, buddy. It needed to be you, it always needed to be you.”

Danny wants to ask why, why couldn’t Steve have decided this for them like he’s decided everything else, but he knows—that’s exactly why. He doesn’t protest, doesn’t complain. He nods, once, and rests himself more solidly against Steve. It’s familiar and it’s new, and it’s so comforting he almost wants to cry. He smells the ocean on Steve’s skin. And his deodorant. And something of Danny on him as well, from being in his bed, he supposes. He likes that. Likes the idea of them smelling of each other. Hopes people will notice. Knows they won’t need to—Steve is not, he knows, not going to be subtle, not now he’s got Danny. But likes the idea all the same.

Danny’s stomach growls, as though it’s only just realized that it hasn’t eaten much, now he’s finally slept.

“Do you have eggs?” Steve asks.

“I think so.” He’s honestly not sure.

Turns out he does, and Steve makes them scrambled eggs and toast and more coffee, and he brings it to Danny in bed, and it’s that that almost flings Danny over the edge, because he knows it’s the first of many times Steve does this, brings him breakfast in bed. And he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, it’s just what he thinks Danny needs, and it’s what he wants to do for him, and it’s perfectly Steve, and Danny thinks he loves it more than he could possibly have imagined. Steve sees something in Danny’s eyes.

“It’s just eggs and toast, buddy. Just eggs and toast.”

But it’s not. It’s so much more. It’s everything Danny’s wanted, and finally, finally, it’s his.


End file.
